Um...

I keep thinking that the thirty year old movie ZARDOZ would be a neat metaphor for certain aspects of the present political and cultural situation.

Moron Of The Day

Mark Urbin has provided us with this brain dropping:

Really?

Does this walking brain death case understand the difference between the acts of nomination and election?

Apparently not.

Up until 1965 the Democrats were the party of corruption and Ku Klux Klan.  As a result most Blacks identified themselves politically as Republicans.

So what happened?

The Democrat occupying the White House, Lyndon Johnson, decided to co-opt the black population into voting for his party.  He and his fellow democrats in Congress used public funds for a set of programs called the Great  Society.  As a result he got his wish for the "N*****s" to vote Democrat.  There has also been five decades of indoctrination into hatred of Republicans in general and Whites in particular.

Given all this one may conclude that the twin in question mat also be a racial collectivist.  In that case I would suggest that  this twit follow the helpful examples provided by other racial collectivists in this You Tube video:

Thought For The Day

If The Big Zero were to strip naked and walk down Pennsylvania Avenue the mainstream media drones would proceed to describe the well tailored suit that he is clearly not wearing.

Baltimore Riots

There is a very simple solution to the riot problem:  Shoot the rioters.

If a mob insists on behaving like animals then they must be identified and dealt with as such.  Shoot to kill--no exemptions.

But--as some walking brain death cases may object--even though the rioters are all black and are attacking all non-black targets--shooting them will be identified by the progressive mentality as a racist act. Well that's really too bad.  As far as a rationally functional government can be concerned the only race is the Human Race.

What are your questions on this block of instruction?

UPDATE 0440 Hours:

The state of Maryland is one of the most hardcore centers of Gun Control.  We can expect anyone who uses a firearm to protect life and property from the rioters to be prosecuted by the so-called government.  Of course those who do engage in the persecution of gun owners should be put to death.

Update 0512 Hours:

The latest Truesbury.

Seriously

(Thanks it Mark Urbin for the image)

Unfortunately the answer is yes.

This what happens when the other party is allowed to get away with cheating.  There is simply no excuse for this walking piece of excrement to occupy a seat in the United States Senate.

A few years ago I wrote a bit of short fiction depicting the proper disposal of a simular piece of excrement:

From the Unpublished Memoirs of Allen Keller.

November 22, 2008


I had to do an Urquhartcide today.

Al Stein was by his own claim and the opinion of the morally and esthetically dysfunctional members of self-styled intellectual class a comedian. In fact he was a boring old socialist drone with delusions of talent. He was also a political commentator with delusions of credibility. His most recent misadventure prior to standing as a candidate for the U.S. Senate from Minnesota was as a talk show host on the Socialist talk radio network known as Air America.

I recall when Air America -- more properly labeled as Radio Pravda -- started up, the local affiliate put up posters at bus stops proclaiming that it was "talk radio without the lies." Something that could only be achieved by a Socialist radio station by the broadcast of dead silence.

So anyway Comrade Stein ran for the Senate against the incumbent Republican Norm Colman. Norm is a nice guy, but like most Republicans he's too nice. He won but the margin of victory was close enough under state law to mandate a recount.

This was where the problem really became apparent.

Local election officials, all Democrats of course, began reporting misplaced ballots or other forms of counting errors to the state election board. All of these so-called corrections favored Comrade Stein. It was very readily apparent that this senate seat was about to be stolen.

On top of this some of Comrade Stein's supporters were camped out on the front yard of his residence in Minneapolis. This had the effect of severely limiting our other options for solving the problem.

However an opportunity opened up when the owner of a new Italian restaurant, who wasn't terribly fond of Marxists, tipped us off that Comrade Stein had made reservations for Saturday night. I asked the owner to reserve a table for two on the same night.

My companion for the evening was a junior secretary from the local British consulate. She was in fact one of Corder's people, sent here to support JM and I in our plot to "dominate the world." I sat with my back to Comrade Stein and his party.

La Gondola, the new restaurant, had opened in the space formerly occupied by a Tex-Mex eatery on the southeast corner of Seventh Street and Hennepin Avenue in downtown Minneapolis. While waiting for the opportunity to solve the Stein problem I spoke to my dinner companion about the history of the building.

"Right over there," I pointed to the corner of the building on the intersection, "was one of the two Fanny Farmer candy shops I worked at after school."

"What did you do?" She asked.

"Light janitorial stuff." I said. "Two days a week here. Tuesday and I had the choice of working on either Thursday or Saturday. I picked Saturday."

"Well...why Saturday?" She was puzzled.

"I didn't want be dragged up to my family's lake place on the weekends... boring as Hell."

"I didn't know you were that well off?" She was surprised.

"We weren't" I replied.

She looked over to Comrade Stein's table.

"Some of those people are making obscene gestures at us," she said.

"Being a Superior Being means never having to behave like a civilized person." I said. "Marxists are funny that way."

She looked over there again.

"Stein's up. He's going to the rest room," she said.

"If you will excuse me." I said as I stood up.

I removed a stainless steel ball point pen from a pocket and placed it in my left hand as if it were an unlit cigar. Comrade Stein was alone and preening himself when I entered the rest room.

"Al," I said, "we need to talk."

"Fuck off!" He replied.

I ignored it.

"You know," I said, "FU could get pretty rough on his opponents, but there one thing he never did, and that was to fuck with the ballots."

Comrade Stein's image in the mirror glared at me.

"What part of 'Fuck off' did you NOT understand?" He growled.

"Nobody steals an election in this state." I said. "JM's going to appoint a special prosecutor after the inauguration. You will be removed from that seat and Lieutenant Governor Pawlenty will appoint Norm to finish out the term. You can walk away from this and save us all the fuss and bother. All you have to do is concede."

Comrade Stein turned towards me.

"We WILL take the White House!" He snapped. "And we WILL snuff out you FASCISTS once and for all!"

He was referring to the ongoing effort of his party to lawyer their way into the White House. And of course he also referred to the well documented homicidal tendencies of the Left toward those who refuse to submit to their will.

He returned to the image in the rest room mirror.

Of course the basic difference between Comrade Stein and a proper old-school Fascist was the silly uniform. But mentioning that would do no good at this point. I consciously decided to emulate JM's late uncle, Francis Urquhart.

"You may very well think that," I said, "but what you're moving towards is a civil war, and I seriously doubt that the United States Army will obey the orders of a Chicago Marxist who has obviously stolen the election, like the Big Zero. You will lose."

Comrade Stein snarled one more time.

"You're going to a supermax!" Which was the worst type of prison in the United States. "You're going to get raped and die of AIDS you piece of shit!"

It is simply not possible to reason with someone who believes that you have no right to live.

There was one thing that could only be done at this point. I switched the pen from left hand to the right and jabbed the point into Comrade Stein's back. I clicked the stud that would normally extend the ball point for writing but which instead extended a tiny needle into his back.

I pulled the pen out and put it back into my pocket.

Comrade Stein spun around.

"What was that?!" He yelled.

"A nonpersistent neurotoxin." I replied. "It won't show up in the autopsy."

Comrade Stein tried to leave the rest room. With my right arm I stopped him and shoved him back into the wall. The toxin was already weakening him.

"Comrade Lenin once said that the ends justify the means." I spoke softly. "You didn't really believe that we would be any less ruthless?"

Comrade Stein tried to speak one more time as I held him to the wall with my right hand.

"Mother...fuck..."

I replied.

"It's not personal Al, it's politics."

Comrade Stein collapsed to the floor and ceased breathing.

It was at this point that I stepped out of the rest room and raised my voice as if I were still a sergeant in the Army.

"Al Stein just collapsed on the floor, someone call nine-one-one!"

All of Comrade Stein's dinner companions, regardless of their gender, entered the Men's rest room while I returned to my table.

Our meal for the evening had not arrived at the table yet. I gestured to our waitress and pulled out a credit card.

"Is there a problem, sir?" She said.

"Apart from the commotion, no." I said as I handed her the credit card. "Could we have the check please?"

Two of Comrade Stein's companions, one of each gender, stumbled out of the Men's rest room. The female was moaning something about Stein being dead. The male stared at me for a moment and then began to look around for something. I placed my right hand on the Glock 36 that I carried concealed in a belt holster, ready to draw on the thug. He grabbed a wine bottle off of one of the tables when two Minneapolis officers entered the restaurant.

The waitress returned to the table with the check and my credit card just as the cops were placing the agitated Marxist goon in handcuffs. I wrote in a substantial tip and then handed the pen to my dinner companion.

"Your pen madame." I said as she accepted the pen and placed it in her purse.

With that gesture the instrument of my latest homicide was placed beyond the reach of the police.

I had to give a statement to the local cops. I said that Al Stein had collapsed when I told him that he would be prosecuted for election fraud.

"Some of his people are saying that you killed him." Said one of the cops.

I replied.

"Only if 'President-March' is a killing word."

I had to explain the reference.

Something Else For Today

From another website:

Back in day Cracked magazine was a low rent takeoff of Mad magazine.  But now they have their own interesting website.

Thought For The Day

As I write this post  it's minus 2 degrees on the old Fahrenheit scale outside.  The morons who persist in believing the fraud of Anthropogenic Global Warming should stand outside and try to seriously continue to advocate their position.

They can't and they know it.

Thought For The Day

Newspeak has become the dominant dialect of the academic and media establishment.

In Newspeak those who uphold, defend and spread economic and political liberty are called Conservatives while those who seek to lock humanity down under their total control are called Progressives. In the political context the practical meanings of the political labels are reversed.

A function of language is to serve as the operating system of human thought. But the function of Newspeak is to prevent correct identification of the facts of reality. Thus blood soaked tyrants are called liberators and actual liberators are called oppressors. Since clarity of thought which is the correct identification of the facts of reality is necessary for humans to survive and prosper a language form that obscures facts and disconnects thought from reality has the effect of being toxic to human life. Each subsequent revision of Newspeak, with its increasing disconnection from reality, is increasingly toxic to human life. An ultimate version of Newspeak in which any thought is impossible would be completely lethal.

Thus if we are to survive and prosper as individuals and as a society we must remove the practitioners of Newspeak  from the educational and media establishments and if necessary isolate them from society altogether.

Step Back, Part 7

The ship’s intercom spoke.

“Visitors boarding!”

The airlock opened. Two civilians, a man and a woman, carefully stepped aboard the Eagle with their grip shoes upon the deck. The man had a mustache and fringe of gray hair. The woman was a redhead who was going gray. She was also dressed for free fall in a pants suit.

Captain Dennis Sterling extended his hand and spoke to the couple.

“Lieutenant Heinlein, Mrs. Heinlein, it is an honor to have you aboard.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Robert Heinlein replied as he shook the captain’s hand. “It is an honor to be here.”

“Thank you, sir!” Sterling replied. “If you will follow us, please.”

The airlock deck was oriented vertically with respect to the ship. To reach the command deck they would traverse with their grip shoes to one of the vertical passageways. Here they would change their orientation to horizontal with the respect to the ship and walk up to the command deck.

Once the guests were strapped into the guest seats on the command deck Robert Heinlein asked a question.

“So Captain, what is the objective for tonight?”

Captain Sterling replied.

“Sir, this operation tonight is an intervention in the Nigerian Civil War. In this we are supporting the Biafran Secessionists against the Nigerian federal government.

“Why?” Asked Virginia Heinlein.

“Well Ma’am, that’s a good question. The Biafrans are a Christian people who do most of the work and basically sit on the oil fields. The outside powers are backing the Muslim majority because hey are lazy and corrupt and thus useable to them. We are supporting the Biafrans as they are clearly in the right and it screws over the Soviets and their Eurosocialist buddies.”

Sterling made the term “buddies” sound as if it had a sexual connotation.

“Yes.” Heinlein replied.

Captain Sterling then pressed down on the intercom button and spoke.

“All hands, this is the Captain, clear for action!”

It was after sunset on the ground at the military section of the Nairobi International Airport. The East German ground crew was moving away from a Mig-15 fighter with Nigerian Air Force markings as the cockpit hatch closed. In the aircraft the pilot then spoke to the airport ground control.

“Nairobi Ground, this is Genocide, request clearance to taxi.”

He did not notice the new star in the sky almost overhead. The starship Eagle had been moved forward in the synchronous orbit to a position over Nigeria.

On the command deck the chief fire control officer spoke up.

“Captain, Genocide is on the air.”

Virginia Heinlein spoke up.

“Genocide?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Captain Sterling replied. “That's the call sign of a Mig-15 pilot, he was believed to have been an East German national and apparently he specialized in killing relief flights, mostly food aid from charities along with the occasional gun runner. No one had ever identified the bastard on the original timeline.”

Captain Sterling then spoke to the chief of fire control.

“Do you have a lock on him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Burn him.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Genocide’s Mig-15 had reached the end of the runway. He again spoke to the local ground controller.

“Nairobi Ground, this is Genocide, request clearance to take off.”

He never heard the reply. In that instant there was a blinding flash of light. The laser beam that hit him had the instant appearance of a razor straight bolt of lightning. It vanished just as quickly. In his cockpit the pilot had been instantly turned to a pile of carbon. The powerplant, a direct copy of a Rolls Royce jet engine gifted to the Soviet state by an earlier British Labour Party government, exploded shredding the airframe. And finally the jet fuel was converted into a bright orange flaming mushroom cloud over the runway.

“Got him!” Said the fire control chief.

“Very good,” said Captain Sterling, “proceed with the primary operation.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

In the clear African skies laser beams would briefly flash into existence and incinerate military targets on the ground. Other aircraft, tanks, and trucks were obliterated. Followed by barracks, headquarters, warehouses and other government buildings.

Ant then finally it was time to deal with the Nigerian troops in the field.

“Captain, the Rangers report they are ready to drop.”

“Proceed.” He replied.

Robert Heinlein spoke up.

“So, this is the interesting part?”

“Yes sir, it should be.” Sterling replied. “Just as you wrote it in Starship Troopers.”

Three Ranger platoons would be dropped along the front line between the Nigerian Army and the Biafran Insurgents. From The drop zones they would sweep north to the engage the enemy.

The dry mass of a ranger suit was a bit over 500 kilograms. With the operator, fuel and ammunition it to came close to a full ton. Against a normal late Twentieth Century infantry unit a Ranger was unstoppable. Against Third World savages like the Nigerian Army the effect was very close to a shriek hunt on the planet Eden.

Some of the so-called soldiers of the Nigerian federal forces would in fact survive this night’s slaughter. In doing so they would drop their weapons and in some cases strip off their uniforms and flee northwards to safety.

On Monday at about Noon in the Oval Office President Nixon was seriously wishing that he was somewhere else. The front page of the New York Times screamed with the headline: NIGERIAN GENOCIDE!

The fact that it was the Christian Biafrans who were facing extermination at the hands of the Muslim majority was both known to the editors of the Times and completely irrelevant. For the Times it was another opportunity to stick it to the Nixon administration and to decent people everywhere.

In the United Nations General Assembly delegates were taking turns to denounce the Uptimers and the United States for having given them sanctuary on Earth.

And if that wasn’t enough there was another headache. There was live television coverage of a delegation of Biafrans at the Uptimer base in Nevada.

“What the Hell are they doing now?” The President asked.

An aide answered.

“Sir the Uptimers are apparently extending official recognition the Republic of Biafra.”

“How the Hell did they get in to Nevada?”

“Apparently the Uptimers flew the delegation into the base directly. sir.”

The television coverage showed that Commander Boatman was still in a wheelchair for the ceremony. Everyone smiled as hands were shook.

“Can that bastard do that?” The President asked.

“Apparently according to our agreement with them, yes.”

Fuck me, thought President Nixon.